A Time of Blood (Of Blood and Bone #2) - John Gwynne Page 0,14

it had been deep and resonant, now it was a whispered hiss, as if Fritha heard it inside her head, scratching within her skull.

Men and women stood about Gulla, seven figures gazing at him with something akin to worship. Last night they had been human, but now, like him, they were something more. Gulla had turned them, drunk their blood and transformed them into a new creation. Into a weapon.

A weapon that will change this world.

They stood about, all of them trembling like newborn colts, as if they had not yet learned to master their bodies. One of them took a juddering step forwards. He had once been Ulf the tanner, one of the lords of Kergard, a large town west of the mine, built upon the banks of Starstone Lake. Now he was Ulf the Revenant, one of the Seven, disciple of Gulla.

“Hungry,” Ulf hissed. The others behind him grunted their agreement.

Gulla smiled.

“We did it,” Fritha said, feeling a smile spread across her own face.

“Aye, Priestess,” Gulla said. “You did it. I never doubted you.”

Did you not? Even when I held my blade to your throat? she asked silently. I doubted myself, for so long. But no more. She looked at the great table, stained black from the lifeblood of a thousand experiments, her eyes moving to the cliff face behind them, set with iron bars and shadow-filled cages. Caves burrowed deep into the cliff, home to a hundred more cages, where other of her experiments lived. And bred.

Soon they will multiply. Where there are ten, there will be a hundred, where a hundred, soon a thousand.

A dull thud resounded, a puff of dust as cage bars rattled and ground at the stone they were set into. A Feral glowered out from the darkness behind those bars, then wrapped its teeth around thick iron and wrenched at it, trying to chew its way through the bones of the earth. Blood mingled with saliva and froth as the Feral heaved and tore at its cage, but the bars held.

Fritha smiled at it, like a mother at a mischievous child.

Not all of my experiments have been so successful, not all of my children can be trusted to prowl amongst us.

Her eyes returned to Gulla, full of a new, unholy fire.

But you, you are my greatest achievement.

Thus far.

“There will be no stopping us, now.” Gulla grinned. “They will head for Dun Seren.”

“They will,” Fritha agreed.

“They must not reach it. Our enemies cannot learn of…” He paused, fingertips brushing his fangs, caressing. “Me,” he finished.

“They cannot,” Fritha agreed. “It is too soon, too early.”

A gust of wind and beating of wings, and Morn swept down from the sky, landing amidst them with a swirl of fresh-fallen snow. Fritha tasted ash and ice.

“I will hunt my brother’s killer,” Morn said, muscled shoulders hunched and twitching as she glowered up at Gulla, as if daring him to deny her.

Drem, you mean, Fritha thought, remembering the young huntsman who had cast the spear that sent Ulfang crashing from the night sky. A shiver of emotion rippled through her at the thought of Drem. He had been her neighbour for a time.

And my friend. The word sounded strange, even in the veiled darkness of her mind.

She had seen something in Drem’s eyes when he’d looked at her. Not desire, or greed, or lust; that she was used to from men. There had been something deeper.

Friendship.

Something kind.

In Drem, Fritha had seen someone searching for a kinship, for meaning, and for a time she’d thought she was the one to give it to him. She’d hoped to win him over, to show him how life was not black and white, that there was more to the Kadoshim than the nightmare tales spoken of them around fires in the dead of night. But it was not to be. Last night Drem had tried to kill her, had sworn that he would.

All things come to an end, Fritha thought bitterly. He could have been mine, should have been mine.

But Drem had chosen a different path, one that would involve slaying her, if his words last night were anything to go by.

We all make our choices. And truth be told, I cannot blame him. I did cause the death of his father.

It had been Drem’s father, Olin, who had found and forged the Starstone Sword that Fritha now wore at her hip. The taking of it had meant Olin’s death.

But I spared Drem, when I could have cut his throat or had